


certain dark things

by mstigergun



Series: Letters [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Starkhaven, all the yearning tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:02:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5409188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mstigergun/pseuds/mstigergun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Starkhaven is a city full of ghosts.</i>
</p>
<p>Talen Lavellan travels with his clan's first, Virion, on a mission of diplomacy... but Starkhaven is haunted by all that happened before, and it leaves him a tangle of old hurts and new aches. Pre-relationship, still full of friendship with a healthy dose of <i>yearning</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	certain dark things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enviouspride](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enviouspride/gifts).



> Virion and Talen return to Starkhaven, a city filled with ghosts. Set just before the proper Letters -- which is before they’ve actually managed to sort out or articulate their feelings for each other -- and inspired by [this post](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/134340600873/dontknowcats-zombiefishgirl-aangisdead), which is all about the goodness that is the friends to lovers trope. It might be useful to read Virion’s timeline fic ([“As The Flower Blooms”](http://enviouspride.tumblr.com/post/128571114551/as-the-flower-blooms)) and Talen’s ([“every ounce of your bright blood”](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/132179589473/every-ounce-of-your-bright-blood)) before this, as it helps contextualize a bit of Talen’s reaction to being in Starkhaven again. 
> 
> This is, like, 150% self-indulgent and full of romance tropes and you know what? That is precisely how I like it!
> 
> (Originally posted on [Tumblr](http://mstigergun.tumblr.com/post/134549098358/certain-dark-things-letters-verse))

> I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. (Love Sonnet XVII, Pablo Neruda)

*

Starkhaven is a city full of ghosts. For both of them, Talen thinks distantly as he and Virion pass the broad gates that mark the city from the wilds, the boundaries that contain all of the buzzing emotion that is  _this place_. Entering it is like walking into a hurricane: the clamour, the frenetic energy, the howling winds of memory.

The destruction. The danger singing through his veins.

He tamps it down. Four years have passed. Even  _if_  Jasper is still here –

It hardly matters.

They pass beneath a heavy portcullis, which hangs ominously above them, and into the quarter in which Virion has all of his meetings. The cobblestones here are polished to a gleam, though how that’s maintained is beyond Talen. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s a result of being trod upon by so many soft-booted nobles, so many men and women wearing slippers that will be ruined by the day’s end.

Starkhaven is the closest thing the Marches has to the finery of Orlais: a city with too much wealth clenched tightly in too few hands.

But it’s wealth Clan Lavellan would take advantage of, if such things  _are_  possible.

And with Virion as their spokesperson, of course they are possible.

Talen glances at his friend as they walk under a second heavy portcullis, the shadows casting him in shadow before the sunlight gilds him in gold and fire, catching on the gleam of his hair, the lines of his profile.

Virion looks over, taking in Talen’s long stare. “Don’t tell me,” he says, lips curling into an easy smile. “I’ve got something on my face.”

“I’m afraid you might,” Talen intones. “And it looks fairly permanent.” 

A bright laugh. “Pity! I always thought purple was my colour,” Virion says with a sigh. He nods his head at a side-street, which they turn down, mounts trailing behind them. If Talen had his way, they would have stabled the harts at the outskirts of Starkhaven – which is also where he would rather be staying. But, as Virion had said, if they were being put up, they might as well take advantage of the coin while it was free-flowing. And Talen was hardly going to leave Virion on his own in the peculiar wilds of  _Marcher nobility_.

“It  _is_  your colour,” Talen says absent-mindedly, because it’s true – though of course Virion wears an array of colours well.

Talen cuts the thought off. Instead, he glances up at the tall buildings framing the street, which seem to stretch all the way to the bright sky overhead. Small balconies jut out, casting shadows below. In other quarters, they would be strung with linens left out to dry; even in Guardian, the afternoon sun is warm enough to dry clothes and the winds rolling off the river would certainly do the trick, snapping any chilled stiffness from the cloth. Here, however, the balconies are bracketed with flower boxes – purely ornamental, empty save for evergreen boughs or dried stalks. Another way to display wealth rather than take advantage of the bounties of this place. Meagre though they may be.

Then again, the people who live here no doubt have courtyards and servants who worry about linens, about sunshine and wind and the brisk air.

He knows all about courtyards and back gardens of houses like these, places in which unthinking nobles would leave fine goods, assuming themselves protected by the estates around them – like the walls of the city, like the sharp and heavy portcullis that separated them from those less  _desirable_.

He and Jasper had been very good at scaling shadowed balconies and scrambling over roof tiles, in lifting especially fine pieces of clothing, or else pocket watches left on garden tables, or sometimes scraps of paper that might prove useful to the right buyer. They always hopped from street to street as a way to avoid suspicion, and thus Shira’s ire, but –

It would be an easy life to slip into again, if he were inclined. Talen would be even better at it now, far more quiet and careful, as accustomed to shadows and secrecy as he is to his own skin. In fact, that’s what Talen had imagined four years ago: that he was returning to  _that_  life, to  _that_  man. To Jasper’s quick grin and nimble fingers, to his delight at taking back from those who didn’t deserve half of what they had.

Instead, he’d been left hollow. Wandering these city streets on numb feet, Jasper’s faltering words circling his head again and again and again.  _He makes me feel everything. I can’t_. Sick with them, empty.

But he had kept walking. He kept moving, though he wasn’t certain, at first, if he could. Talen had been given a task to complete. He had a clan to return to, and dreams to give up on. Because of course he hadn’t deserved them, not in the end. He belonged to the shadows. Other men lived in the brightness of  _potential_.

It was four years ago, but still –

The air suddenly feels very thin, here in the white-walled neighbourhood by the river. He draws in a long breath, steadying himself as his hart plods along behind him, as he walks by his friend’s side.

That was an age ago. A different life.

One in which he’d had something like  _hope_. When he’d still believed he might be  _enough_. And now –

“We’ll have a few hours at the inn before I need to head off to my first dinner,” Virion says as they continue their way up the shadowed street. “Is there anything you wanted to see?”

The outside of the city walls, he thinks, biting back the pained sigh that accompanies the thought. Instead he says, “The bottom of a drink. This isn’t a city I’m particularly fond of.”

It’s to Virion’s credit that he doesn’t ask why, though certainly they’ve spent enough time together over the last few years for Virion to understand the difference between silences and curt sentences that require prising open, and those that should be let alone.

Virion’s mouth shapes itself into a frown, though it’s a brief expression. “No,” he says, “I don’t especially like it either. Though I suppose that a tavern in one city is much like one in the next.” He chases it with a quick smile, reaching out to clasp a hand to Talen’s shoulder – a familiar weight.

Talen presses his hand to Virion’s, his friend’s skin warm even in the chill air. His palm lingers for a moment before dropping away once again. “Who knows,” he says after they turn another corner and draw nearer to the water, this little street lined with hanging signs proclaiming the various buildings stores or inns or taverns, cobblers or tailors or whatever else it is that nobles want near enough to shop for at leisure. “Maybe Starkhaven will charm me.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I’d go  _that_  far,” says Virion. “I’ve been trying for the better part of a year without gaining any ground, and I’d say I’m  _far_  more charming than a rather uptight city.”

Talen huffs out a laugh. “Oh, has this been you  _trying_? Virion, I expect better. You haven’t written nearly enough poems about my good looks or enigmatic aura.”

“Ah, he wants poetry,” sighs Virion, drawing a stop in front of a brightly-painted sign emblazoned with a carved narwhal. “Well, with  _that_  piece of direction, I’d say you can expect to be thoroughly charmed by the time the evening’s through.”

“You’re saving all your charm for the shems. Don’t think I don’t know that,  _lethallin_.”

Virion waves a hand dismissively. “They’re remarkably easy to win over, truth be told. If I show up in half-decent clothes and compliment them on their decor and mention their generosity and  _open-mindedness_ , generally I’ll manage an agreement with them before we finish the first course.”

A young woman trots out from around the side of the inn, dressed in tidy clothes, though her hands are dusty and a piece of straw clings to one curl of hair. She ducks her head and offers politely to take their harts to the stable. Talen hands over the reins after unclasping his saddle bags, which a different girl collects and carries inside with an uneasy smile.

“Shall we?” Virion asks, gesturing to the door.

“If we must,” Talen murmurs, stepping inside.

The foyer is bright and large, a lavish set of stairs leading to the rooms upstairs while a broad doorway leads into the dining room. The innkeep, a ruddy-faced man whose eyes nearly fall out of his head when he takes in the sight of the both of them, hovers behind a desk, hands resting on his ledger. “Ah,” says the man. “Lavellan, yes?” At Virion’s nod, he adds, faltering, “I thought – I was expecting  _an emissary_.”

Virion smiles politely. “Yes, I’ve come on behalf of Clan Lavellan at Lady Cauldwell’s request, accompanied by my companion. Her household will have told you we were coming.”

The man fidgets in place. “Yes, messere. Lady Cauldwell did send a servant to make the booking, and he told us…  _you_  were coming. And the inn is very full indeed, what with Wintersend just around the corner and all the lords and ladies readying to make marriage plans for their children.”

For a moment, Virion’s brow creases. Talen can see the tension pulling his shoulder blades together, can read it as easily as he might read a line of text. Talen crosses his arms over his chest, as his attention flicks from Virion to the innkeep, who’s still shifting weight from foot to foot.

“But you  _do_  have a room for us,” Virion says. His hands rest on the broad, high desk separating them from the innkeep.

“I have a room, yes, messere,” says the man. “But – well, I don’t mean to be improper. I hadn’t realized you would require a room with two beds.” His stare flashes to Talen before darting back to Virion, jaw tight. Even in the dim light of the foyer, Talen can see that he’s flushed.

Irritation starts to prickle at the back of his skull. He straightens.

“Oh, that’s hardly an issue,” says Virion breezily, ignoring the man’s colour, his uneasy stare. “We’re quite accustomed to close quarters.”

Still, the innkeep’s attention flick uncertainly to Talen, who stands off to the side of the little foyer, arms folded hard across his chest. Talen’s eyes drop down to the golden sun hanging around his neck, the wedding ring glinting on one finger. Ostentatious, one that makes a little tapping sound as he drums his fat fingers against his ledger. Behind his desk, a delicately rendered drawing of Andraste in her wedding garb, a beam of light behind her no doubt meant to represent the Maker. Or – whatever.

A devout man.

“I run a – very well-respected inn,” offers the man distantly, as though that’s explanation.

It’s certainly explanation enough for Talen to discern the root of his concern, and for a corresponding anger to flash bright across his mind. If the rotund man wishes to be devout, if he wishes to believe he has the moral  _high ground_  because of what he presumes might happen if he let two people who are unmarried share a room with but a  _single_  bed –

If he thinks that no one’s fucking outside of wedlock in his inn –

Though of course he needn’t worry about Talen and Virion, who’ve shared many intimate settings without anything resembling sex. Without so much as a heated embrace. Although Talen has, on occasion, been forced to build space between them, or to give himself time alone to –

Deal with the occasional side effects of such intimacy. With how it sometimes leaves his skin buzzing, too tight and uncomfortably warm.

“I’m quite certain you do,” starts Virion, ever the diplomat. “But –”

Talen cuts him off, allowing a frown to shape his face. “Yes, no doubt. Though I don’t appreciate the implication that your establishment might be less well-respected because we’re here,” he says, voice low, “Besides, we’re  _perfectly_  proper. Just because we weren’t married in a chantry doesn’t mean we’re any  _less_  tied than any of the other couples staying here. Do you take issue with the Dalish? How certain I am Lady Cauldwell would like to know that her hospitality has not extended through the inn she selected for her guest.”

The man blinks, rocking back on his heels for a moment. “Maker keep me, I take  _no_  issue with your kin, messeres,” he says, one hand reaching up to scrub at his generous beard. “You are more than welcome, and I wouldn’t have Lady Cauldwell thinking any different. Foolish of me to assume you hadn’t – had your own ceremony. Of course. Perfectly respectable, and it was uncouth of me to suggest otherwise.”

An awkward pause, the man flushed a deep crimson, sweat gathering at his hairline. Talen holds his stare, steady, as the man’s eyes dart between he and Virion for a moment. Then the innkeep clears his throat, gestures toward the stairs. “If you will follow me,” he says, stumbling slightly over the words, “I’ll show you to your room.”

Like that, he turns and leads them up the broad stairs, leaving them in a large room furnished with a bed far larger than one Talen’s ever seen before, its headboard intricately carved, its linens plush and pale. As soon as the key is pressed into Virion’s palm and the door is closed – which is hastily indeed – Virion turns on him, a look of pleased disbelief spreading across his features. “And where was I during our handfasting? You think I’d have remembered!”

“Hardly,” says Talen, setting his bags on a low dresser and sinking down into a chair positioned by the fire that’s already roaring. “I’m sad to say that we’ve only been handfasted in my sweetest dreams. Much to Asharil’s disappointment, I’m sure.” He tugs his boots off, kicking his legs over the arm of the chair and watching the fire.

Virion busies himself unpacking all of his finery, presumably to hang it in the large wardrobe near the door. “Has she said anything? About wanting to see you  _paired off_?” he asks.

“No, not recently,” says Talen. “Thank the Creators. I think she understands that –”

He stops, because he’s not sure how to finish the thought. Instead, he watches Virion as he pulls off his cloak, smoothing it before he hangs it by the door, his long fingers trailing over the seams, the ruff of fur, the heavy fabric with intricate clasps carved from bone.

“That what?” Virion turns and shoots him a curious look. “Don’t you  _want_  to be?”

It’s something they haven’t talked about before. Though certainly they’ve talked about men, that’s only been in the most casual of ways. This –

Talen shifts, sighing.

Again, he can feel his history in Starkhaven hovering beneath the moment, like ink bleeding through an attempt to cover it up. Parchment that won’t scrape clean.

He’d come here for such a thing – not a handfasting, no, but something even more  _real_. To give up his ties to the Clan for Jasper. To be with him, then and forever.

Forever hadn’t even covered a night.

“I’m not suited to such a thing,” he says finally.

“Not even with Wintersend  _just around the corner_? Such a time for romance!” Virion shoots him a wry smile, as he unfurls a green and gold robe and sets it on the bed, smoothing out wrinkles and fussing with the lines of the seams, which are gilded in gold thread that one of the Clan’s tailors had laboured over for weeks.

It is a glorious robe, and one that Virion looks –  _exquisite_  in.

“Is there a proposal somewhere in there?” Talen asks, straightening in the chair and finally tugging his own cloak off as well, now that heat has begun to flush the skin between his shoulders, the back of his neck. “Be careful. You might get my hopes up.”

Before Virion can respond, there’s a gentle tapping at the door. He pulls it open, and Talen can hear the high voice of a boy. Something about  _unintentional mistake_  and  _humble apologies_. A moment later, and the door’s shut again. Virion holds a bottle aloft in the air.

“Why look,  _dear husband_ ,” he says. “Our gracious host has sent this as an apology. It’s –” He pauses, reading the label. “Ah, a 9:19 out of Montsimmard.”

Talen’s eyebrows shoot up. “And that’s – good, is it?”

“I haven’t the faintest clue,” sighs Virion. “You’d think that all of this time among nobles would have schooled me in the nuances of  _very expensive_  wine, but I tend to just repeat whatever it is they’re murmuring as they inhale and swirl and stare at its colours. Shall we? I did, after all, promise you a drink.”

Talen blinks at him incredulously. “Did you?”

“Well, no,” admits Virion, “but you’ve accompanied me all the way to Starkhaven and will have to spend the evening  _pretending you’re married_ , which I expect will curtail your fun significantly.  _And_  I’m going to make you help me with my hair once I’ve bathed. So I’d say you deserve this.” He proffers the bottle again.

That’s right, Talen thinks. He’s meant to be respectably married now. Which is what happens when he lets his frustration best him, meaning he’ll be stuck by himself –

Not that he’d intended on dragging anyone back to bed. It’s not something he and Virion have ever really spoken of, but neither of them  _does_  that when they’re together. Instead, they spend their time – well, in each other’s company. It’s only when Talen’s away that he returns to his usual habits. And he knows Virion is the same. Certainly, they share their stories later but –

It’s hard to pin down. Talen  _does_  know he’d always rather spend the evening with Virion than in a stranger’s arms. He supposes that’s what friendship is about: finding someone who  _means_  something. Whose company is as familiar as his own, but worlds better, who makes him feel –

Brighter.

“Well, if my fun’s going to be curtailed,” Talen says, pushing himself up. He wanders across the room and takes the wine, searching out a corkscrew and the delicate glasses nestled on a little table near the fire. “Did you want a glass before you bathe?”

Virion ponders this for a moment as he fusses with the rest of his clothing, hanging each of his robes up and leaving Talen with only a sliver of space in the wardrobe. Not that he needs any of it – his clothes aren’t the sort that need hanging.

“Oh, I suppose,” Virion decides finally, which is good because Talen’s already poured him a glass. He hands it to Virion and tips their glasses together for a moment, the clinking soft in the luxurious room. Muffled by the plush fabrics, the roaring fire, the wild wind outside.

For a moment, he’s not sure what to say. Then, “To the end of winter,” Talen offers. “And – Creators, leaving this city when we finally can.”

“To having someone who’s equally put off by Starkhaven,” Virion adds.

_To having someone at all_ , Talen thinks distantly, though he keeps that thought inside. Instead, he drinks his wine as Virion launches into a long monologue about the guests he’ll be seeing tonight and the string of dinners and luncheons he has to attend, and all the alliances he hopes to forge on behalf of the Clan.

When he disappears to the bathing room down the hall, Talen pours himself another large glass of the wine – which is, indeed, excellent and tastes very much like a sincere apology, if such a thing has a flavour – and moves to the tall window. The glass is polished to a shine, set deep into the thick walls; despite the winds outside, no draft sneaks through and he’s as warm as he could wish.

Though he’d  _still_  rather a little hovel of an inn outside of the city than being swallowed up by the opulence of this neighbourhood, than finding himself nestled in the foul, unsteady heartbeat of this city once again.

The view, though, is extraordinary; far better than staring at a midden heap beyond the quarter’s walls. Talen peers out toward the waters, which are choppy and still dark with the lingering chill of winter. The buildings are white, cut from shadow and bright sunlight. The streets below are mostly empty save for the occasional servant bustling to and fro on some obscure task.

Along the waterfront, he spots a pair of distant figures, hunched together, laughing. Young, and though Talen can’t tell if they’re boys, he imagines that they are. Lanky young men, hands shoved in their pockets, heads craned together.

Something inside of him aches, and he looks away.

His will be a long night, he thinks, waiting for Virion to return from his obligations. Starkhaven is a city that almost seems made for long nights spent alone. That’s certainly his Starkhaven.

At least on the other side of his isolation he’s guaranteed of Virion’s return. Of a friend by his side. Of being –

Wanted. In some manner.

That is, at least, a comfort, however spartan it suddenly feels. Virion’s friendship is no small thing – indeed, it is  _everything_  – but…

He stops. Sets his wine down, adds another log to the fire.

Enough of that. More than enough.

Virion returns eventually, hair wet, his skin flushed with heat, the line of his shoulders softened by a pleased laxness. The robe he’s pulled on is knotted tightly at his waist, but still leaves a sliver of skin exposed from his long neck down his chest.

Talen looks away, instead glancing at a chair. He pushes it to rest in front of the fire, gesturing. “Well,” he says, with a quick look at his friend, “If I’m to tame your hair, we’d best get started now.”

“You are a treasure,” Virion sighs, sinking down. Loose-limbed and content.

Talen sets to work on unsnarling Virion’s damp hair, careful not to pull. Gentle, always. It’s what Virion deserves: attention and a soft touch. Talen combs back his hair, twisting and pulling and tucking as it dries, made pliant by his attention. They sit in silence for a long time, Virion drinking his wine and staring at the fire, Talen thoughtlessly working with his friend’s gloriously soft hair – though that same softness does make it remarkably tricky to work with. He twists his wrist, fingers brushing the edge of Virion’s ear.

Virion shivers, then, though it’s not cold in the room. Talen pauses, his eyes catching on the shape of Virion’s neck, the pale and exposed skin over his breastbone, dusted as it is with freckles.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” Talen murmurs, deftly tugging at Virion’s hair and adjusting the angle of his hand so that he doesn’t touch Virion’s ears – which he  _knows_  are sensitive. Not that he’s caused pain, but –

Well. In such proximity, they’ve both learned how to dance around one another. Another unspoken agreement, one Talen is glad they’ve never had to give  _voice_  to, because giving voice to what they’re not permitted might be dangerously close to –

Making it real. And Talen would very much like to continue  _not_  thinking about that.

“Oh, don’t apologize,” says Virion, still blinking at the fire. “I’m the one with these ridiculous ears.”

Talen huffs, pulling at a strand of stubborn hair and looping it into place. “They’re hardly ridiculous.”

“You’d never know it from the looks I get. Or how carefully I have to sit in foolishly high-backed chairs. Why do you think it is so many nobles insist on having chairs taller than  _they_  are?”

Talen laughs, then, a dry sound. He concentrates on the feeling of Virion’s hair beneath his fingers, on pulling it all firmly into place, on the image of Virion having to perch on the edge of his seat because the chair gets in the way of his ears. “I don’t know. But it does tell you that they’re not accustomed to seating elves in their halls. That you’ve managed quite the feat,  _lethallin_.”

“Don’t even get me started on  _that_ ,” Virion says, neatly dodging the compliment. “The comments I’ve listened to about  _footwear_.”

And so he launches in on a long chain of stories as Talen continues fussing with his hair, the fire crackling before them, the day slipping slowly toward night beyond their window.

It is, Talen thinks, a better sort of memory to have of Starkhaven. How odd to think that this was where they first met –  _properly_ , in any case, because of course they’d spent many years in the same clan. Starkhaven saw them spending time in forced proximity. It is a city in which they both had their hearts broken in different ways, though Talen nurses his in silence and in solitude. This is the place from which they’d launched their friendship, this the starting point for all future warmth.

Even though, in those first faltering days together, Talen had been lost inside his own darknesses –

Even then Virion had understood. And here they are again.

It doesn’t explain the ache beneath Talen’s ribs, but being here  _is_  like being caught in a tempest: prone to push him off-course, make the skies above him spin, the winds howl in his ears. If he’s ended up battered by this city, left dazed and confused, so be it. The world will right itself soon enough.

Though not quite soon enough. Hair managed and the sky outside slipping toward darker tones, Virion rises, rolling his shoulders, and sets to work dressing. “You’ll have to help me with the clasps, nimble-fingered as you are,” he says breezily, shrugging his robe from his shoulders. “Creators know they’re  _lovely_ , but all of that ornamentation Taedis laboured over has made them very tricky to manage. Especially the ones at the wrists.” Like that, his shift is puddled about his feet as he stands over his ornate robe for the evening, examining it where it lays across the bed.

For a moment, Talen’s stare tracks the line of Virion’s spine, dropping to the pale curve of his lower back. Painted as he is by the firelight, ivory and gold, all of him a picture of glorious grace –

Talen turns abruptly, moving the chair away from the hearth. Fussing for a moment with the stack of logs the servants have left. Hovering by the heat of the fire, which gathers beneath his skin. He shouldn’t  _look_ , not while his thoughts are this unsteady. It’s a violation of trust, to watch Virion not as his friend but as –

As he might watch a lover. Joke as they might – and they  _do_ , in a way that Talen doesn’t with Evelyn – this is a line he can’t cross. Especially not here, not in Starkhaven, which reminds him of all the reasons why doing so would be folly, why it would only cost him a dear friend.

Still, his head turns, an unbidden movement. Virion holds the soft robe aloft, looking it over and running a thoughtful touch over the embroidery. He is a figure cut from shadow and light.

Talen’s breath catches in his throat. His palm is damp against his wine glass.

“I worry that I’m going to ruin this by the time the evening’s through,” sighs Virion, entirely unaware of the dark and heated turn of Talen’s thoughts. He turns his head, shoots Talen a bright smile. “How like me it would be to – oh, spill  _impossibly expensive_  wine all over this exquisite filigree.”

Talen makes a noncommittal sound in his throat, turning instead to examine the little ornaments on the mantle. He thinks distantly that it’s fortunate indeed that the room is this dim, that the flush he can feel at the back of his neck, the tips of his ears, is hidden by the shadows. Behind him, the rustling of fabric.

Talen finishes his wine, setting the glass on the mantle and forcibly pulling himself back in order. If he’s been able to manage their bathing rituals on the road, this should be no different. Only that – Starkhaven has left him frailer, more vulnerable to weaknesses of his own heart. Though Virion needn’t suffer for that.

He clears his throat. “No doubt the embroidery will last the evening,” Talen offers, turning once again to his friend, who’s now pulled on the robe and is working on the ornate silver clasps that trail from his collarbone down the entire front of the robe. “Now, those clasps.”

If his fingers fumble, at first, Virion doesn’t notice. Or he’s too kind to say anything. Or he blames it on the wine. In any case, Talen manages to get them all done, reaching to straighten the way the robe’s shoulders rest across Virion’s. Smoothing out any last wrinkles while Virion watches him, looking half-amused at the frown that flashes across Talen’s face with one panel of heavy fabric won’t lie quite straight.

“There,” says Talen finally, still foolishly flushed. “You’re perfect.” His eyes flick over the complex series of plaits and knots he’s used to tame Virion’s hair, checking again for any mistakes – though there are none. He’d been single-minded then, as well, because concentrating on  _something_  had helped him avoid –

The rest of it.

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” says Virion, his voice hushed in their room. One hand moves at his side, an unsteady gesture as if he means to catch Talen’s in his own, but –

Instead he turns, tugging his cloak free from the hook where it hangs. “And now I’ve a number of nobles to dazzle. Though I don’t imagine it will be terribly difficult, now that you’ve worked your usual magic.”

Talen huffs, looking toward the fire, as Virion throws his cloak on. “And you’ll work yours,” he says distantly, as Virion fusses for a moment in the looking-glass.

Virion moves to the door, with a flash of a smile – but then he stops. He hesitates, hand on the door handle, his hair an intricate series of knots and plaits that leaves the sharp lines and planes of his face clear. Shadows gather in the hollow of his throat, the firelight glinting off the sheen of his red hair, the gold threads of his robes a distant glimmer beneath the dark shadow that is his cloak.

“Talen,” he says. In a way that very nearly sounds hesitant.

Talen watches him. “Yes?”

Virion is silent for a moment. Then, “ _Do_  try not to win so much coin off the other patrons so as to draw undue attention.”

“I’m very careful, Virion. After all,” he says, mouth curling into a brief smile, “I have  _my husband’s_  reputation to protect.”

“I knew you would understand,” says Virion. And then, quick as a flash of lightning, he moves in close to Talen and presses a quick kiss to his forehead – just there, where his skin meets his hair. “I should be back shortly after midnight. If I’m not, you may want to stop by to make sure I haven’t been arrested for  _apostasy_.”

“Of course,” says Talen, though it’s very hard, suddenly, to breathe. Though his skin buzzes loudly enough that he can barely string together two thoughts. Like that, Virion disappears into the cold night beyond and leaves Talen standing near the end of the bed. Heartbeat a distant echo in his ears.

He stands there for what feels like ages. Caught in the storm raging beneath his own skin.

It is, he knows, a foolish, useless thing. Selfish and small, to gamble his friendship on such a feeling. And so he won’t. And so he refuses. After all, Talen understands shadows. He understands remaining hidden, staying cloaked in silence and darkness.

He heads down to the dining room and has another bottle of wine sent up, not quite willing to brave the quiet crowd gathering there while he feels so exposed, so dangerously near some precipice he can’t quite name. Instead, Talen lingers by the fire in their lavish room, the warmth soaking into his skin. When the wine arrives, he opens it and pours himself a generous glass, again wandering around the space. His fingers run across the footboard, the plush fabrics of the bed, come to rest on the handle of the wardrobe.

An indulgence, but he allows himself to open the wardrobe and trail his fingers across the soft fabrics of Virion’s robes. Though of course they’re not warm, as the green robe was when Talen adjusted it, they still feel like –

His friend. His  _friend_. Talen’s hand jerks away, a frown flashing across his face. He shuts the wardrobe doors again, firm, feeling suddenly as though he may have done something wrong. Something unworthy.

But it’s a hidden failure, one that is, perhaps, forgivable in a place like this. In a city full of ghosts, specters like his own weaknesses, past and present, are silent as the grave. They’ll keep his secrets, so long as he can manage the same. Still, he can’t quite trust himself like this, not when he’s this –

Haunted.

So instead, Talen hauls on his cloak and heads toward the river, bottle in hand. He wanders through the dark, through the cold, the wind doing its best to chase away any of the lingering warmth beneath his skin. It takes him little enough time to find a fouler part of the city, to slip from this quarter to one that better suits him and his state of mind. All cities are more or less the same: always there are the ugly parts, and those are the areas that make him feel at home. Dark and gritty, places where he can  _breathe_.

There, Talen finds his way to a pile of half-broken crates at the end of one long pier, where he sits, staring out across the wide waters. Bit by bit, they calm as the winds settle for the evening. The moon is a pale orb in the middle of the river, shuddering and dancing. Stuttering, as is his own heart.

He drinks his wine. He drowns his thoughts. He becomes as still and expansive as the endless sky above, as dark and unfathomable – even to himself.

All these years, and still Starkhaven may break his heart. Or perhaps his heart has always been broken and now he simply feels the ache of old wounds. Things better left forgotten, words better left unsaid. Thoughts best left to darkness, to silence and solitude and shadow.


End file.
